Pieces
by Madam Callisto
Summary: "He spends his nights sitting, as he did before meeting Sherlock, on the bed of his old apartment, alone. Often, there is a tall drink in his hands. Sometimes, there is a gun too." Warning for mature themes.
1. Chapter 1

John always dreams of that day.

For months and months, long after their names have vanished from the newspapers and been pushed out of most people's minds, John still dreams.

Sometimes he dreams he'd come a little sooner, been faster, done something else right to stop things from happening as they did, but usually it's just that same cruel nightmare. Far worse than any war dreams he's ever had. Every night he dreams, he dreams of the fall. So he doesn't let himself dream anymore.

He spends his nights sitting, as he did before meeting Sherlock, on the bed of his old apartment alone. Often, there is a tall drink in his hands. Sometimes, there is a gun too. He sits quietly in the dark for hours on end, staring back in forth between the items in his hand, wondering which will go in his mouth this time. The scotch always wins, as John considers himself a coward, and he drinks himself again into dreamless slumber.

On the nights he drinks there are no tall buildings, no bloodied corpses. He never is in danger, never has to watch people die. There is nothing but a welcoming quiet in his mind that he cannot help but think Sherlock would despise. Sherlock would probably tell him that the idea of letting one's mind be completely blank was a ridiculous waste, that he might as well just not have a brain at all! But John doesn't want to care what Sherlock would think. Sherlock was an idiot. He thought it was okay to leave John alone.

He wanted to drink again tonight, but he found his bottle cruelly empty. John considered walking to the nearest liquor store but doubts he'd make it, even if they were open. The pain in his leg made simple tasks like getting drunk infinitely more difficult these days. So he leaned back on his bed against the wall, this time with the empty bottle in one hand, and his gun in the other.

John ran his fingers slowly across the length of the weapon, feeling the familiar contours of the frame he has probably cleaned hundreds of times in his life. There was something strangely comforting about the smooth barrel of the weapon that made him grateful he decided to keep it after being discharged.

The Browning L9A1 had been one of the few constants in his life. When he'd so suddenly gone from being a solider risking his life daily, to a nobody, stuck in a room with a cane, his weapon had been the one thing that had stayed with him no matter what. His comrades would die in battle; his family would move on with their lives, his friends would throw themselves of building, but his gun...his gun never left him.

Tonight, as he stared blankly at the walls of his room, it occurred to John that while he might be frightened to be pull the trigger, the prospect of shutting his eyes and watching Sherlock die again was far more terrifying. It was as simple as that, John thought with a smile as moisture filled his eyes.

Nothing had ever happened to John before he'd met Sherlock, and as he was beginning to realize with the gun at his temple, nothing ever would now that he was gone.

His hands were steady as they moved to the trigger; steadier then they'd been since Sherlock's death. Not a trace of the tremor that had so perplexed his therapist remained. John closed his eyes, wondering what he'd hadn't wondered since the first time he'd had a gun to his head. What hell was going to be like.

But more importantly, if Sherlock would be there as well.

John pulled the trigger.

There was a sharp click followed by silence.

John sat still for a moment, not sure if he was already dead or not. If he was, then it was surprisingly painless. Clearly he'd been scared for nothing. John opened his eyes and his room came back into focus.

Oh.

He lowered his weapon and looked at it carefully. In all the years he'd owned it, not _once _had it ever jammed. Not _once_. During long mission after repeated firing, when the inner machinations had become full of sand, the damn thing still fired for him. It had saved his life, and it had killed his enemies for years and years. Why now had it decided to fail him?

John got up awkwardly and pulled open the drawer of his desk, placing the gun back gently inside with a sigh. It was very rude of his gun to decide, that his life was not his for the taking, he thought to himself, but very suddenly he felt a wave of tiredness sweep over him. The last few minutes had been straining, so he limped back to him bed and lay down, pulling a blanket over himself, and feeling too tired to give a damn about what his dreams would be.

In a matter of minutes, he was asleep, his eyes twitching beneath his lids and fingers gripped so tightly into fist that the nails dug into the skin of his palms. In his dream he ran. He ran as fast as he could to Sherlock's side. But he was still far too slow. Ever movement he made felt as if he was running through quicksand. Ever sound he tried to make was muffled and wouldn't reach Sherlock's ears. In his dream, his eyes were blinded by his tears, but in the real world, the tears that washed down his face were gently wiped away.

Sherlock reached down and took John clenched hands in his own, trying to relax his fists tight grip. As his fingers ran smoothly across the mans skin, John's hands slowly loosened from the fist they had formed. His rapid breathing slowed as John's unconscious mind felt the familiar slender fingers run across his own. Sherlock leaned slowly forward so that he has just next to John's ears.

"Don't do that again, John." He whispered, the small metal spring from John's gun was gripped tightly in the hand that wasn't holding John's. "Please just wait for me, you idiot, alright? Do you think you can handle that?" In his sleep John's eyes fluttered slightly, but did not open.

Sherlock slid his hand off of the sleeping man's slowly, despite his desire to sit beside John the remainder of the night. He took careful care not to make the smallest sound as he left the room. He turned back for a moment to take in the sight of what was left of John Watson before turning quickly away and fleeing the room as quickly and quietly as his feet would allow.

When John would awaken the next morning he wouldn't have his usually feeling of blind despair. He would instead feel an inexplicable sensation of warmth that confused him greatly. For whatever reason that morning, the world did not seem like so cold and cruel of a place, and he was glad his gun had failed him.


	2. Chapter 2

**No longer a one-shot! Part 2 of 4.**

* * *

><p>He didn't know why it hurt so much.<p>

Certainly he didn't want John to kill himself, that would be...unfortunate. No. It was not just that of course. It would be more than unfortunate. John was his friend. He didn't want John to die, that he knew clearly enough, but the things he felt now...they were new. New and weird and thoroughly unpleasant.

But he just couldn't stand to watch anymore. To watch the way John tore himself up over what Sherlock has done to them-him. Done to him. It made a knot form in his chest to see the way he clung to his bottles like they were made of gold. The way didn't sleep. The way he looked when he walked by 221b. Why did breathing become so difficult when he looked at John's face? That stupid, sad, stupid, _stupid_ face of his.

Why couldn't John just get over him?

It hadn't been hard for other people to do.

When in the past he'd been in relationships with people (either his pathetic friendships or actual girlfriends, as he was in fact curious enough to attempt intimate relationships at some point) they had always been very clean breaks in the end. People would eventually grow tired him. They'd decide that his ranting and probing was just too much and they would leave. Sherlock wouldn't mourn, they wouldn't call him again, and everything was fine. No mess no fuss. He forgot their names, their faces. They just became pieces of useless information that he tossed into the back of his mind as not to crowd up the finite space he felt he had there. It wasn't really a problem though, as they forgot him too soon enough. But John? John was an idiot.

He just wouldn't let Sherlock go.

Every Sunday since Sherlock's 'death' he'd walk by Baker Street. He'd walk by and just stared at the place they'd once called home together. But since the day he'd moved out he'd never actually been able to enter again. John had taken everything he owned and bolted from the place, leaving all of Sherlocks possessions behind to slowly gather dust.

Sherlock knew this as he'd been living in the long abandoned Baker Street home for several months.

It wasn't the wisest choice really. He was still in danger and there was still the chance that John might actually decide to come back and collect Sherlock's things or Ms. Hudson might stop by again. She'd moved out not longer after John had, claiming the place wasn't as much fun without Sherlock and John, and that renting it out again seemed somehow improper. All the same, Sherlock did little in the way of loud sounds or movements when he was there. In the end it probably would've been smarter just to move somewhere else, anywhere else. But Sherlock didn't have anywhere else to go. And maybe, just maybe, he wanted to be found out.

But for now he was alone. His own man. A force of nature with nothing around to tame him, he thought to himself. The thought didn't really give him much in the way of personal satisfaction. And it certainly didn't make the wood floors of the desolate flat anymore comfortable. Unfortunately, John seemed to have decided that the furniture had been his property and taken that with him. This left Sherlock sitting awkwardly on the floor in-between two boxes of books, fully-dressed to keep out the chill of the winter night, and with the sleeve of his left arm rolled carefully up to his bicep.

He slowly flexed the fingers of his left hand, taking in every sensation of the way the skin of his hands wrinkled and moved around his knuckles. It was nothing fascinating, nothing interesting, just something he'd always done in moments like these. A silent comparison. Before and after.

Every experiment needed a control test.

When his hands moved again they went this time to the glass vial that had been sitting patiently at his side all night. He turned the bottle over once, always painfully aware of how small and unassuming it looked. Contrary to the power it really held.

Now Sherlock moved quickly, pulling the syringe and rubber tubing from his coat pocket and laying them carefully against the floor alongside of him. The tourniquet came first.

With the experience that came from a man long accustomed to the actions, Sherlock tied himself off, smoothly and efficiently, marveling in the way his veins rose up eagerly, awaiting the familiar sensation. Like no time had passed at all.

The syringe filled slowly, as if he was unsure if how high he should fill it. A ludicrous idea. Sherlock didn't know why now he was slowing and taking his time. It had been a while, sure, but he still knew what he was doing. Muscle memory alone was enough to get him though this task.

He pressed the syringe against the waiting vein, the pinch of the needle was wonderfully welcome against his shivering skin. Sherlock drew back, watching his blood pool beautifully into the syringe. Sherlock had forgotten this simple act before the injection itself could be so soothing. He lingered here for a moment, his eyes drifting to watch the door to his and John's flat.

It was a stupid gesture. Sherlock hadn't deluded himself into believing that anyone had suddenly realized he was alive and was about to burst through the door. Even if his brother was clever enough to have figured it out, he had been out of the country for a long while. Sherlock had no one at this moment. It hadn't bothered him before, and it shouldn't bother now.

It never had until-

Until he'd...

Until he'd met John.

For the first time since he'd moved in with the man, there was no one playing conscience for him. There was no angel sitting on his shoulder to tell him to stop. No one who cared-well, no one who cared and knew he wasn't dead.

For one more second he stared, his eyes unblinking as he watched the still door.

…

It didn't open.

Sherlock pressed down on the syringe.


	3. Chapter 3

John closed his eyes as their lips met for the first time, his entire body becoming a mass of trembling nerves as he felt smooth fingers reach up and slowly begin to unbutton his shirt. He had never been so nervous in his entire life, and he could hardly pretend to be anything less than terrified. A line had been crossed for John, that must was painfully obvious, and it showed in the awkwardness of his movement. Every touch of John's was tender, as if he could not stop himself from waiting for some kind of protest. His clear inexperience was met with smiles that made a flush of heat rise to his cheeks. He held his breath, trying to force himself to move, to respond in some way at all.

After summoning all of his will power, he managed to bring his hands up to gently run his fingers through dark locks.

That small, simple touch was everything he could ever have hoped it would be.

_ He han't walked past 221b in nearly two month. It had been better that way for him in the end. Initially, he'd thought going to their old flat, staring at that familiar door (even if he'd never actually been able to go in) had been good, even therapeutic for him. He thought that he needed to keep Sherlock in his thoughts. But as time past it only ever left him feeling more hollow then he'd been before. Once or twice he tried to enter, but no matter how hard he tried, he never could cross the threshold. He gives up quickly, and gets himself back to his flat before his panic strikes._

_ So he stops going back._

_ Somedays it's better for John. He wakes up in the morning and doesn't hate the world as much as the day before. It's almost as if he can pretend there isn't anything missing from his life, and that this is all his life has ever been. It comes in cycles for him. He'd always imagined it would just be one long stretch of depression followed by a period of healing, in that order, but it hadn't been so simple. No two days were the same._

_ Some days he was okay._

_But most days he isn't so lucky._

John walked backwards, pulling the two of them down against his bed as he went. His nervousness faded at gentle words whispered in his ear.

His eyes were shut. His hands reached out to touch bare flesh, pulling closer, tighter, hoping an ounce of warmth could be spread between them. His lips continued to blindly seek out the other mans.

"God I missed you so much, Sherlock." He whispered against the other mans lips.

A soft chuckle reached his ear but nothing was said.

"Do you...do you mind?" John asked nervously, his hands shaking as they entwined with his.

"No, no, this is fine."

John held in the flood of tears that threatened to spill out of him.

"Thank you..."

_He completely changes his daily route to avoid Baker Street after that. It's inconvenient for him, and even worse for the cabdrivers that he makes go out of their way, but it's the only way he can manage. Their old flat is directly in between his new place and the hospital he works at, but John can't handle the fastest route. The increased cab fare is nothing in comparison. _

_As a rule, he doesn't even walk closer than two blocks away. It is if he's scared he might accidentally walk into it, or any of the restaurant's the two of them went to, or even catch a glimpse of his old neighbors. He avoids them all as if they were poisoned. _

_He's all the more unprepared two weeks later when, nowhere near Baker Street, he spots the flash of a dark coat across the street._

No more words are spoken as the room filled with the sounds of soft moans and gasps breathes. John opened his eyes and through the blur of his tears he could pretend for a while that the body against his own was the one he wished it was, until at last, time froze and the two collapsed, limbs tangled about one another and hearts racing.

As John began to close his eyes, the other man made to gather up his clothing but John pulled him back, clinging desperately to him as if John were a drowning man and he a life raft. He sighed and leaned back into John's embrace feeling a small tremor in one of the hands that clutched pitifully to him. It reached up to stroke gently at the hair in his face.

"We should have done this a long time ago, Sherlock."

"Sweetheart, this has been fun but I really have to-"

"Please don't. Please. Could we just-just."

A small sigh. "Alright, It's your money..."

They lean back onto the bed, John's arm wrapped around his waist, the other running through curly locks, wondering if this was how _his _felt.

They were silent the rest of the night. John buried his face in the small of the man's back happy to have for just a moment, found a moment of peace. The gigolo himself didn't particularly care for what John might be thinking at the moment, and lay chewing gum and texting his next client absentmindedly on his blackberry until dawn broke over London, and John finally fell asleep.


	4. Chapter 4

The time frame for a second has always seemed completely arbitrary to Sherlock. A person could have very well have decided that one second could count for two or three seconds, a larger fragment than 86,000th of a solar-day, or have simply made it count for a hundred years. Regardless of what it's called, Sherlock knows that one second should be no longer than any other, no minute should feel any different length-wise, than any other, the duration of a year is supposed to be consistent.

And yet for the two of them, time moves aching slow as it pulls them away from the events at St. Bart's.

Every second feels like a hundred, every minute an hour.

Every year, a millennia.

The key it seems, to living for ever, is not as elusive as previously thought.

But eventually, time begins to pull itself back into order. Seconds last the amount of time they should, each moment no longer drags on as it should.

Which is to say, time passed.

Dust settled on 221b Baker Street, as its caretakers were long gone from the flat. Seasons changed outside of the window, and pages flew off calendars. Holes left by absences were filled slowly with time, and soon, John Watson found he'd grown used to life without his best friend.

It is a mercy he comes to cherish the fast time moves. No amount of alcohol could ever drown out the memory, no sleepless nights in the company of others could do much either. In the end, time gave John the courage to return to Baker Street late one morning.

Three years to the date.

He did not know what possessed him to come now of all times, to trudge though the mountains of snow and push his way into the creaking entry of the place he'd once called home, but he'd knew that he had to go.

As soon as he closes the door behind him he takes a long inhale of the cold, stale air of their home. The sudden movement of the door and his footsteps across the floor sweep dust into the air, and John finds himself regretting not coming back here sooner. He'd been renting the entire building himself from Mrs. Hudson for nearly three years now, but he hadn't ever bothered to do much in the ways of upkeep. It was a stupid thing to do really, and done entirely for selfish purposes. But even if it was no longer his home, and Sherlock was no longer alive, John didn't want anyone else inside.

John gives the cardboard boxes in his arms an unconscious squeeze as he observes his silent, dust covered surroundings. He swallows and moves on towards the stairs. He isn't scared to be in the place anymore, he knows that, but every second he stands still the walls start to move closer and closer together.

The stairs creak as he climbs them, and John thinks he should have them looked at by a carpenter- until he remember that they've always creaked. Strange, he'd had what he thought was a perfect memory of the place as he knew it when they'd lived there, but it now it seemed like he might not know it after all. Sherlock had always said that the average human's memory was hardly something to be trusted. It required training and an intention span that most simply _didn't posses._

John shivers against the cold which is almost as strong inside the flat as it is outside. He is greeted by the sight of the door that leads into their flat ajar and waiting for him as if he'd never left. It's as if he'd just popped downstairs for tea with Mrs. Hudson and was already on his way back up. Despite the growing tightness he feels in his chest, he pushes open the door and walks in.

John doesn't know what he was expecting.

The room is as he left it, devoid of most of the larger pieces of furniture; their chairs, the couch and television, leaving countless stacks of paper and journals than he hadn't quite gotten around to boxing with the rest of Sherlock's belongings. Clothes, lab equipment and things of that nature had been packed away fairly easy, surprising John greatly, but when he'd started going though his papers, he found himself stuck. It was all of Sherlock's notes on crimes and criminals, murders and robberies, kidnappings, arsons, and even a few petty purse-snatching that had interesting flairs to them. It was Sherlock's life's work, his legacy, and John's knees felt weak at the prospect of moving them.

There are a few minutes in which all John can do is stare in silence at the last proof he has that their ever even was a Sherlock Holmes, before he takes a deep breath and places his boxes down on the floor besides the first stack of papers.

Sherlock's handwriting is abysmal, not that John or anyone who wasn't an experienced cryptologist would be able to decipher it much anyway. Apparently shorthand wasn't near fast enough to capture Sherlock's stream of consciousness on paper, and he'd just decided on his own system of writing instead. The entire thing contained numerous shortenings and odd abbreviations made up seemingly at random, and what looked like a good many letters from other written languages, and some that just couldn't actually exist. John can't hold back a snort when he sees them. Sherlock really _would _be too good for legible writing.

It takes much shorter time that he expected to pack away what remains of Sherlock into a box. In the end, with a fair bit of cramming and disorganizing that Sherlock would probably find appalling, it all packed away in the contents about six boxes. John lets out a small sigh when he's finished.

The greatest man that he has ever known, and the best friend will probably ever have: stuffed away into half a dozen cardboard boxes.

"Need a hand with all that?" a voice says softly behind him.

John smiles as he feels Mary slide her hand into his. "Yeah, sure," he says, picking up the closest box to him, "Think you can handle this one?"

Mary smiles and rolls her eyes as pulls the box from his hands, "Please, I'm hardly the dainty one of us two." She plants a small kiss on his cheek as she turns to head downstairs with the box.

She stops at the door, "Are you…are you alright doing this?"

John nods slowly, "I wasn't really so sure this morning, but I…I think I actually am."

"Good," Mary says, "I'm glad." John scoops up another box and follows her down and out of the flat, repeating the process until the two of them stand outside of Baker Street with the boxes at their feet.

"What do you want to do with all of this?" Mary asks.

"Dunno," John says honestly, "Guess I might put it all into storage for now."

"You don't have to John. If you want to keep in the house I wouldn't mind."

"No, don't think I really need the reminder," he takes a slow breath, as if to brace himself for his own words, "He's dead. I can't dwell on that forever."

Every time he says it, it sounds a little more true.

Mary stares and gives his hand a soft squeeze.

* * *

><p>If he were a man to believe in any kind of higher power or in destiny having some rule over his life, Sherlock would have attributed his and John's return to Baker Street the same morning to something along those lines.<p>

But as he is far beyond silly things of that nature, he knows it is sheer coincidence, perhaps due to him and John sharing similar feelings of sentimentality regarding this date, even three years later.

_Sentiment, _he thinks to himself with a faint scowl, _when on earth did I turn into that kind of man?_

He didn't particularly know what he intended to do, sitting on the floor of in their old living, twiddling his thumbs like an idiot, but it felt strangely nice to be there anyway.

Sherlock jumps at a sound from downstairs. He knows it's him as soon as he hears the sound of keys rustling outside. John's key was a slightly cheaper quality copy than his, and made a unique sound when it rustled the inner tumblers of the lock.

He gets up and dusts himself off. If there's any moment to reveal himself as being alive to John, it's this one. The ever present danger hanging of the consulting detectives head is gone, all the hype surrounding his name has vanished, and the one person who he remotely cares if his continued existence in known to is entering their apartment at that very moment.

Sherlock hides.

He tells himself that he might be wrong, and that it might not actually be John at the door. Yes, he's just being safe, someone else might have stolen John's keys. He was very prone to losing them. It's for the best if he stays in the next room for a few minutes-at least until he's sure that it's really him.

At the sound of uneven footsteps climbing the steps, Sherlock becomes sure.

The unevenness is light, he limping slightly. Sherlock feels a knot form in his chest. It's very slight limping, hardly noticeable. John probably isn't even in any actual pain from it.

Then John's in their living room, and only one wall separates them. Sherlock's feet don't want to move. He leans against the wall of the adjacent room with his eyes shut. Why was he being such an idiot?

Everything is quiet in the other room. John must just be looking around. He must have noticed the footsteps in the dust Sherlock left early. Or perhaps not, this is John after all.

Sherlock swallows. It's best if he just comes right out and spares John the mystery.

He peaks his head carefully around the corner and find himself staring at John Watson's profile.

There aren't any bags under his eyes, Sherlock notes. _He's __getting enough sleep._

Leaning slightly more of his weight to the left-_limping slightly, as he thought._

Put on a few pounds-_maybe a girlfriend?_

Sherlock clenches and unclenches his hands, and makes to move forward into John's field of view.

That one second where his feet move just the smallest bit forward, feels like the longest of his life. The clock have stopped ticking. Sand has frozen in its hourglasses. Sherlock feels the entire world holds its breath with him.

And then she's there.

Taking his hand.

An engagement ring on her finger.

The second collapses in on itself, and before anyone can see, Sherlock ducks silently back into the next room.

Sherlock doesn't know what he was expecting.

Three years have passed after all, people move on, stop mourning, living their lives, for God's sake. People move on, they live their lives. John wasn't different from any other people in that respect. He was moving and going to marry, and work at a stable job, and have 2.5 snot-noses kids.

Over the sound of the blood pounding in his ears, Sherlock can't hear what they're saying, but they seem to be enjoying themselves.

Whoever the woman is, she was there for John when Sherlock couldn't be. She was there to pick up the shattered pieces of the best friend he'd left behind. She'd done more for him than Sherlock ever could.

This turned out better than he expected, Sherlock tells himself as he places a hand over his mouth to quiet his harsh breathing.

John is alive. He's healthy. He might even be happy. It's good, very good, good for him.

Sherlock's nails dig into his palms. This wasn't like him. He shouldn't _care. _He should just walk back out there and reveal himself to John, tell him about what he missed, why he's alive, demand he comes back to solving cases with him.

Instead, Sherlock sits and waits in the silence of the flat, recounting the number of floorboards that make up his room. He already knows of course, but he counts anyway until he hears the doors close one last time, and the rustle of John's stupid keys.

And then he waits four more hours.

He leaves quickly, not slowing down at all to look around for nostalgias sake. Sherlock doesn't care to remember their home as it is now.

Sherlock turns up his collar against the cold, and runs a hands a hand across his forehead.

_Three years, _he thinks with a dry laugh.

He didn't think anyone would remember him for that long.

* * *

><p>That night if Mary notices her fiancé is hugging her tighter to himself than usual, she says nothing.<p>

**END**

* * *

><p><em>AN: Well this turned into a bit more of a downer than I expected. Anyway, thanks for reading everyone!_


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